A tertiary education
by planet p
Summary: AU; some people say there's a reason behind everything we do; maybe they're right and there is! He didn't need a reason to go to university, he only needed the opportunity.


In some ways, it'd been easy to pick up the pieces of someone else's broken life than those of his. And, in the end, the reason he'd gone to university had less to do with himself than it did have to do with her: to pick up the pieces of her life, to rescue her.

To pay for his studies, for rent and the other little things one needed to get by, to pay the bills and general expenses, he'd had to take a few jobs on top of his studies, and all of it together barely left him any time for socialising. But that was okay. He wasn't here to get to know anyone, he was here for a reason; he had a mission and he was sticking to it, if it would be the death of him!

He had to save her.

He wouldn't laugh when the detectives asked him about Tazu and Chiyo, or, as they were better known to the Western world, Holly and Ginny. He wouldn't _implore_ them to dig into his records: when had he the time for anything they were saying? He'd let them go on, he wouldn't even deny it. In many ways, he might come to think it was as much his fault as anyone's. He'd taken a class with Chiyo once, he thought. She'd been quiet, she hadn't spoken much; she'd missed Tazu. The lecturer had called her name, using Ginny instead of Chiyo, and it had taken another two times for her to realise it was her name which was being called. She hadn't blushed; she'd gone pale and sunk into herself, hoping to become invisible and disappear altogether, like ink when it mixes in with enough water: transparent.

He told himself he might have felt it, if he'd been more attentive to his surrounds, but he'd been focused wholly on his task. He'd come to the university – _this_ university – because of the facilities, and the equipment. He hadn't applied for any scholarships; he hadn't been able to take the risk. Using Jimmy's name had been a big enough risk in itself, but he'd had no other choice: he'd had a schedule to work to.

He didn't think he was like her, like their mother; rescuing children. She'd never stayed to witness the aftermath, but, in his mind, his whole life was like the aftermath of some horrible, horrible experiment. It hurt him to think that way, but sometimes he just couldn't help it. He didn't hate his parents, he didn't even hate his life, but he hated that she'd had to suffer as much as she had; he wished he could make it better for her: it was his dearest wish. He never stopped to think what might happen afterwards, when it was just his own life he was left with, when, invariable, she did as she'd always done: when she'd gone her own way and cut him out, leaving him alone with no one but himself for company. He didn't even know that person, he didn't know who he was without her; she was his whole life, she'd been it from the start.

He loved her. Sometimes he even thought he cared more for her than he did for himself. That was okay, wasn't it?

The pain had melted away the hours, and when he finally stirred and rose from the floor, it was to find the hour much later than he'd anticipated it could conceivably be. He stayed up the rest of the night to study for a test he had, though it was the farthest thing from his mind at that point.

In the morning, he couldn't eat, and for the rest of the week he'd throw up at the first sight of food. It was the same with sleep; everything hurt and even though he'd though that the pain would eventually wear him down, and it did, the sleep was never restful. His epilepsy decided to remind him it hadn't left him, the faithful friend it was. He felt awful and wondered if he was dying. Bugger that, he decided, a week later, he wasn't dying until he'd made sure she was okay: he could jolly well wait to die until after he'd done this thing!

He stared for too long at the bills lying opened on the table in front of him, trying to make sense of the numbers and tables that he'd have flied through with ease little more than a week ago, and felt his eyes burning as his vision blurred in and out. He slept too often on the floor, or in the corner of one of the rooms, unable to stomach the minimal comfort of the bed, as though maybe it would signal something bad.

How was he going to pay the bills _and_ buy what he needed?

He got another job; by the end of the day his head was crammed so full of engagements that he felt ill, and it was only worse in the morning. If he could remember where he was supposed to be for an entire day, he had to count himself damn lucky.

Amy's turns only made it ten times worse, but the experiments had seemed to somehow trigger her already fragile condition. She came and went at will, buggering up all of his plans in the process: she had plans of her own, of course. She never wondered where the money came from, or who finished the assignment she'd almost gotten around to: she must have done so herself; fallen asleep and then promptly dismissed the entire affair from her mind. She seemed to be suffering from amnesia; she never went to anyone with it, she wouldn't dare: she was free and bugger all to the rest of it!

Pain was a part of his life; it'd been so for the greater part of what he counted as his life, what he could remember of it, in any case, and it wasn't a stranger: he didn't like it, though, and he knew that he'd have to keep working; he'd have to make it less painful; he didn't want to kill her, he wanted to _help_ her.

And then, just when he'd though it would be of his own doing, Tazu and Chiyo happened. And fucked everything up royally! He couldn't begrudge them that, though, they were dead. He decided that, in all likelihood, it wouldn't happen again. He moved on; he could no longer stay at the university, but he'd recently been offered a job with the Center. He'd have to move to Canada but that was perfect! His luck was looking up; he felt worse and worse by the day; he told himself it was just depression, or his bipolar. There was so much to be proud of; so much to look for to! So, he hadn't got the piece of paper, he'd finish it by correspondence; he'd get the stupid piece of paper, for what it was worth. But there were more important matters at hand! Far more important matters! And matters that had to be seen to before all else!

Canada was more beautiful and impressive than he could have imagined from looking at pictures or watching the odd ad over the television, but he hadn't the time to marvel over the scenery. The serum needed to be made ready – _soon_ – and he was being more closely watched now than ever! He struggled to write letters to a girl he didn't even know; his pen pal. He'd been writing them for a while, ever since he'd found the girl's message in a magazine he'd only chanced to pick up and read; something that Amy had left lying around and had eventually been packed into boxes along with all of her other junk; he didn't remember that he'd brought it home for her from the newsagency where he'd worked for a short while.

In his letters, the girl knew him as Naomi, and she had no reason to suspect otherwise. He tried hard to make her like him, and to make it seem as though that was all he was, nothing more, to the people who might be reading his letters second-hand. He had no way of knowing whether they'd finally figured it out, whether he'd finally slipped up, until the girl wrote to him again: he was just thankful that they allowed her to do so.

In his last letter to her, he tried to be as positive as possible. He was sending the serum to her; he'd tried to think of some way to hide it, but he wasn't sure how inventive the method he'd finally chosen was: he'd sent it in a bottle of perfume. He'd never prayed before, but he really _hoped_ it worked out. For his efforts, he was rewarded with a blood nose, though he was sure it was his nervousness and not that he'd been hoping too hard: surely, there was no such thing.

And then that went to shit, too!

* * *

**A tertiary education** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _the Pretender_ or any of its characters.


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